The Hostel Diaries

October 16, 2005|By Maren S. Bingham Special Correspondent

While traveling in South America on the cheap with my 25-year-old daughter, I got more than I bargained for.

Sonnet had spent most of the summer back-packing in Europe before landing in Lima, Peru, where I was teaching, thanks to a journalism fellowship. She had taught English in Japan for three years before that and was an experienced budget traveler in places like Thailand, India and Vietnam. We had decided to take a few weeks to explore South America together.

"We have to travel cheap," Sonnet said emphatically.

While I don't usually demand luxury accommodations, I had been used to traveling with an expense account. I consider $65 per night a cheap hotel, even in Latin America, where the dollar is relatively strong. I had visions of lockers, bunk beds in dorms and me dancing cross-legged in front of a locked bathroom door while a fellow traveler with dreadlocks took his time showering. And I was worried about the cockroach potential. I do loathe a cockroach.

"I'm too old for that," I told her.

"Nothing more than $15 a night," she said with a look and tone that sounded more motherly than daughterly. "Maybe $18 at the most."

I murmured a noncommittal "we'll see," as we purchased Lonely Planet's South America on a Shoestring. Our agreed-upon division of labor had her planning an itinerary that included stops in Colombia, Chile, Argentina and Uruguay, and narrowing the list of accommodation options. I would book the planes, trains, buses and hotel rooms. After a couple of days, she handed me a schedule of cities and a list of accommodations with rates ranging from $13 to $20 per night. I eyed it warily.

"All right, I'll try," I finally conceded. "But I refuse to book anything where we have to share a bathroom."

The problem with using popular guidebooks, we discovered, is that thousands of other travelers are using them, too. And because we were planning the trip only a few weeks before our departure, almost all the places on Sonnet's list weren't taking reservations. So I turned to the Internet, using sites such as www.hostelscentral.com and www.hostels.com, which usually provided instant information about availability and rates.

I made reservations via e-mail, by phone and with secured reservation systems. I felt some trepidation as I paid for rooms in advance, a requirement with many Internet reservation systems. Sonnet, a guidebook fanatic, was dubious about this leap into the unknown, but we didn't see other practical options. For better or worse, our journey was set.

We arrived in Santiago, Chile, around 6 a.m., our neurons fried and our muscles screaming from two almost-sleepless nights and ceaseless sightseeing during a 12-hour layover in BogotM-a, Colombia. We wanted nothing more than a bed.

The first place I had booked was a "homestay" hosted by a man named JosM-i Estay. He had been super responsive after I booked via Internet, peppering me with e-mails before we left about how to find his place, what tourist attractions were nearby, and his cell phone number should we run into problems. Even with all the information he had sent me, I was surprised when our cab pulled up in front of a tall, modern-looking apartment building.

As we shuffled into the lobby, the portero immediately said, "JosM-i Estay?" directed us to the elevators and helped us shove our luggage in.

Our knock at the door served as Jose's alarm clock. He opened the door in his PJs, mumbled a warm, if sleepy, welcome, and helped us carry in our not insignificant luggage. He pointed us to a back bedroom (with private bathroom), handed us keys and an envelope stuffed with information about the apartment and recommendations for eating and sightseeing. He then shuffled back to his room to get ready for his job at American Airlines. (He also, we later learned, offers a bedroom with a shared bath and, if necessary, will sleep on the couch to accommodate more people.)

We looked around. Facing us were bunk beds. To the right were two twin beds, all with black metal tube frames. Crammed between one bed and the wall were matching black metal shelves, the surfaces crammed with family photos, a miniature airplane and car collection, and 37 bottles of men's cologne. Along the wall next to the shelves was a low, narrow table with towering stacks of old magazines, a half-dozen clocks set to different times and a TV to which JosM-i had taped a sign warning (or advertising) that porno showed after 11 p.m. on channels 48 and 56. Near the ceiling, the wall was bordered with gorros (baseball caps).

In our private bathroom, the three shelves at the back of the bathtub/shower were completely filled: at least a half-dozen partially-used bottles of shampoo and conditioner and other containers with face wash, face masks, lotions and shower gel. The top shelf had a big bowl filled with partially-used bars of soap in a beautiful array of colors, and a clear glass canister was half-filled with condoms. (Sonnet noticed that they all had old expiration dates on them.)